Chantelle rapped on my door at 5:45 p.m.. I'd finally fallen asleep around 2:00. Groaning, I rolled off the lumpy sofa and padded to the door in my bare feet.
"You look sick," she said when she saw me. "Are you contagious?" Her right hand rested on the butt of her gun. It had taken a long time for me to get used to that particular accessory.
I scrubbed a hand over my face, trying to pull sleep's cobwebs away. "No. I am not freaking contagious. Come in."
She gave me a skeptical glare, but when I turned around and pointed myself in the general direction of my Mr. Coffee machine, she followed. It wasn't far to go. The whole place was maybe four hundred square feet—just one open room with a partitioned off bedroom and a bathroom the size of a closet. Since I'd furnished it mostly with my grandparents' cast-offs, it had a hardcore 1970s vibe. Lots of brown floral patterns on everything.
"Tell me why you sent me this plate."
I filled the glass carafe with tap water and poured it into the machine, added two big scoops of crappy store-brand French vanilla grounds. It was the last of what I had. Dang it, it was exhausting not knowing if I could afford tomorrow's coffee. Then I remembered the cash I'd gotten and my spirits lifted a little. I flipped the power switch to the on position before joining Chantelle at the kitchen table. "Did you find anything?"
With her arms folded over her ample bosom, she looked exactly as her mother had when she'd caught us up to no good and lying about it.
"What?" I asked.
"Swear on your mother's grave you're not romantically involved with this guy."
Well, damn. That piqued my interest. "Why? What's wrong with him?"
"Swear it."
"My mother's not dead," I pointed out. She was a lying, cheating, absentee deadbeat, but last time I knew she was still very much alive.
"Swear."
I wasn't sure why I was resisting. My romantic interest in Drew Freeman equaled my romantic interest in the elephant I recently saw on a trip to the zoo. "I swear I am not, nor will I ever be, romantically involved with this guy. I just want to know who he is."
"Why?"
"Chantelle!"
"Olivia!" She took a deep, calming breath. "Look, I bent the rules for you today, and I'd like to know why."
How much should I tell her? After having most of the day to think about it, I'd decided that I did believe the agent and whomever he worked for were capable of erasing memories as well as people. I didn't want either of those things to happen to Chantelle. She had a husband who thought she was a goddess and the cutest fat little toddler I'd ever seen.
"He came into the hotel last night."
"Uh-huh."
"I got some weird vibes."
"Girl, you got half the drug dealers in the state running through that rathole. You must get weird vibes on an hourly basis."
"Geez, it's not that bad." It only seemed right to defend the place that paid my rent, such as it was.
She arched a brow at me.
"Different kind of weird," I finally said. The coffee pot wasn't even a quarter of the way done yet. Why was it so slow? "Actually, it was this other guy that was weird. This guy came in after the creep and he said he's a bounty hunter."
"True," she said.
"Well, if you know that, why the big fuss? He's practically a cop like you."
She held her hands out in front of her for me to stop. "Oh, no, sis. He ain't nothing like me. Bounty hunters and police play by entirely different rules." She uncrossed her arms to gesticulate, emphasizing her point. "Furthermore this Drew Freeman has a fugitive apprehension license that checks out as valid. The car is registered in his name, but that's it."
"So? Why is that bad?"
"That's it. That is all he has. His listed address is the Walmart on the east end of town."
I agreed that was weird. I didn't even especially like shopping at Walmart. Living there would be an absolute downer.
"Drew Freeman's got no spouse. No criminal record. No school record. No immunization record. The guy's a ghost."
I barked out a hysterical laugh.
Chantelle watched me the way all cops must watch people who are clearly mentally unstable. "What?"
"Nothing." I wasn't about to suggest maybe he was a ghost. Or a ghost hunter. Or some other version of the walking dead.
She narrowed her gaze a little more. "Now I've told you all I know about your mysterious bounty hunter. I want answers in return. Why do you want to know about this guy?"
With everything in me, I understood that answering that question honestly would be a terrible idea. But I couldn't lie to my friend, either. Maybe there was middle ground. I'd just give a little bit of the truth. "He came in last night looking for someone."
"So you said."
I peeked at the coffeepot. Halfway there. The smell was making my mouth water. Some blueberry muffins would go great with that coffee. And it just so turned out I had blueberry muffin money for the first time in dang-near forever. Because of Agent Drew Freeman and his smelly fugitive. Focus, Olivia. I cleared my throat. "Well, he found him, and it was a bad character. Like..." A sudden image of two teeth on the carpet came to me and I burped a nasty little burp. The urge to eat muffins died. "Bad," I finished, lamely.
My friend waited with the patience of a trained interrogator.
"I helped Drew catch him."
"Drew, eh?"
"Agent Freeman," I said.
"Mm-hmm."
"I did good." That was true. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I'd been sort of a badass. An accidental badass, for sure, but, still, that had to count for something, right? We just wouldn't talk about the passing out or vomiting. Definitely wasn't going to bring up that split second in the parking lot when he reached inside his jacket and the entirety of my life flashed before my eyes.
The skepticism melted off her face, replaced by outright incredulity. "You want to be a bounty hunter?"
"No. That's insane." If I concentrated, I could still feel the thickness of that envelope full of money. People might say money doesn't solve all your problems, but I couldn't think of a single problem I had that wouldn't be erased like magic by a few more of those envelopes.
She sat there. Looking at me.
"Maybe," I admitted.
"Girl," she shook her head. "That is not a road you want to go down."
Dang it all anyways. I knew the truth had been a bad idea. "Do you know how much money they make? And it's cash. They get paid right away when they bring someone in."
"Do you know what the survival rate is? How many filthy rich, retired bounty hunters have you met in your lifetime?"
I threw my hands up. "I mean, to be fair, I haven't met anyone filthy rich, ever, so far as I know. Everybody's broke. It's the twenty-first century, you know? The future is now, and it's kind of dystopian."
Her head dropped, and she ran a hand over her eyes. "Run a plate for you." She stood and pushed her chair in. "I've got to go home and eat dinner. Frank is getting Chinese. Go back to bed. Stay there until ten o'clock. Go to work at the hotel. Do good at your job. Get promoted. That's what you went to college for, right? Live a long, boring life. Avoid guys with no traceable existence."
It didn't seem like there was much to say to that. I hated it. It sounded awful. But I also hated arguing with the people I loved. "Thanks for running the plate. I'm sorry if I put you in a weird position. I should have thought about that."
She shook her head again. "Love you, sis."
"Love you, too."
I watched her go and then sat there staring at the door for a few minutes before getting up to pour myself a cup of coffee. It was too strong and bitter. For three dollars more, I could have gotten the name brand kind that had that buttery flavor that lingered on my lips after each sip. Maybe I'd buy that kind with my skeleton guy money, but how long until that windfall was used up. Then what? How many more years would I have to scrape along by renting rooms to pimps and truck drivers before I got the promotion that might allow me to afford decent coffee? That college degree in hospitality had been meant to earn me a spot in some exotic local where I wore a sarong to work every day and snow was a novelty. Things had not gone according to plan.
No way I was going to fall back asleep. I didn't have to be at work for almost five hours.
Thirty minutes later, I had the rest of the coffee in my giant steel travel mug, and I was driving eastward. There were a few things I needed from Walmart, anyway.